


except because I love you

by Shay_Fae



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Falling In Love, HIV/AIDS, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Teenlock, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-19
Updated: 2015-03-19
Packaged: 2018-03-18 15:32:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3574713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shay_Fae/pseuds/Shay_Fae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or what happens when love isn't enough</p><p> </p><p>Winner of FuckYeahTeenLock’s Rare Pair Contest</p>
            </blockquote>





	except because I love you

**Author's Note:**

> There are a lot of sensitive issues in this piece which I tried to be as historically accurate and compassionate about as possible. But be warned, the 80s were not a pleasant time for the gay community. If that upsets you, as it should, proceed cautiously. There will be hugs and kisses at the bottom.  
> If I got anything wrong, please tell me.

_I do not love you except because I love you_

_I go from loving to not loving you_

_From waiting to not waiting for you_

_My heart moves from cold to fire._

_-Pablo Neruda_

"To Sherlock!" his mother toasted, raising her half-filled glass. "May he only have success at Harrow."

The chorus of "here, here" was lost in the clinking of glasses and the murmur of adult conversation. Sherlock didn't listen to any of it. As soon as he could, he begged an early turn-in out of Mummy, claiming a headache. She kissed his forehead, smearing bright lipstick on pale skin, and told him to rest well.

Mycroft was not so easily fooled and he walked into his little brother's room just as Sherlock was tucking himself into bed.

"You forgot to knock," Sherlock bit off petulantly but his older brother only padded in and sat himself down on the edge of the bed.

"You forgot to say goodnight to me," Mycroft replied gently.

Sherlock was quiet a moment, playing with the soft bedcovers before looking up. "I don't want to go to Harrow," he confessed.

Mycroft didn't look surprised. "Nobody _wants_ to go to Harrow, Sherlock," he said. Seven years older, he'd graduated last year at the top of his class and was off setting an impossible standard at Oxford that Sherlock would also be expected to reach. "We go because we must."

"Why must we?"

"Because we will be great men one day," Mycroft said, reaching out to rub the twelve-year-old's feet beneath the blanket. "And this is how we get there."

"If they hurt me, I can't go home," Sherlock whispered, real fear in his eyes and as he watched his brother's face, he knew Mycroft would not understand. Pretending was so easy for him, like slipping on a new set of clothing. He'd had friends in Harrow. He'd never come home with bruises and broken notebooks and names lacerated to his heart.

"If they hurt you, hurt back," Mycroft tried, as best he could. "Great men do not stop to be good."

Not being good sounded like something he could manage.

 

Harrow did not disappoint in its promised awfulness.

They'd put him in Elmfield and given him a shepherd that clearly didn't want the job. Within two months, Sherlock had racked up four skews and had been told off by his House Master another eight.

The bullies at Harrow were no different than the ones at home, only with a little more money. They were vicious beings who picked at weakness, regardless of whose it was, so it was easy enough to distract them by feeding them embarrassing secrets about each other. He got beatings anyway, but less than he had at home.

And then his house threw a Guy Fawkes party.

He would never have been invited any other way, or would've shown up, but it was in his common room and there were fizzy drinks that did pleasant things to his head and one very quiet part of his brain whispered it might be a good time to try fitting in- just for a lark.

He'd taken up position by the wall, drink in hand, free hand in pocket, body projecting the best _leave me be_ vibes it could muster when the boy shuffled up to him. Sherlock had seen him around of course, name was something with a T, but the light skinned Shell (a year 9, just like him) was always surrounded by a huddle of vapid mouthbreathers.

But now he was alone and smiling at Sherlock. "So," he said, opening his mouth, and Sherlock groaned aloud.

"No. Absolutely no small talk," he ground out and the boy blinked at him.

"Well what'd you rather we talk about; physics?"

"That's be delightful, if you could keep up," Sherlock shot back. End of discussion.

But then the idiotic boy opened his mouth and, "Did you read the new black hole theory Hawking just put out?" tumbled out like it had waiting there in the forefront of his mind.

It was Sherlock's turn to look caught-of-guard. "I did," he said, at a loss for anything else to say.

"And? What'd you think?" the boy prompted.

Sherlock opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again and said, "You might want to sit for this."

The huddled on the couch for as long as they could stand it, heads close together so they could hear each other over the din of the music. Finally they gave up and moved to Sherlock's room, the boy with his back against the headboard and Sherlock with his legs on the bed and his head dangling over.

"I just don't think a black hole-"

"No, no, no, don't be an idiot," Sherlock chided with no edge. "You were doing so well-"

"But hear me out!" the boy insisted, getting passionate for not the first time that evening. "If colliding black holes emit gravitational radiation, then who's to say-"

"Don't you dare go intelligent design on me-"

"Wouldn't dream of it," the boy grinned and then the dorm door opened and Sherlock's roommate, a sour-faced boy whose name he'd deleted- was striding in.

"I'm exhausted, shutting the light," his roommate threw out, tossing his jumper on his bed. "Kick your guest out before I come back." And then he picked up his toiletries and went out.

The boy on his bed looked at Sherlock. "Pleasant fellow," he offered.

"He snores like motor engine," Sherlock responded and then they were giggling like children and the boy was climbing off his bed.

"To be continued?" he checked and Sherlock swung himself up to nod emphatically.

"Yes- um," he started, stopped and gathered his courage. "What's your name?"

His guest laughed out loud. "I'm Victor Trevor," he smiled. "My mates call me Vic."

"I'm Sherlock," Sherlock introduced. "My victims call me Sherly."

That prompted another laugh out of Victor and he stood there smiling at Sherlock from his doorway for what felt like ages and not long enough. "Goodnight Sherlock," he said finally.

"Goodnight Victor," Sherlock said and Victor's face faltered a bit.

"You can really call me Vic," he offered and it took Sherlock a minute to grasp it all. No one had ever called, implicitly or otherwise, Sherlock their 'mate' before.

"I know," he smiled shyly. "But I like Victor."

Victor grinned back at him. "Suit yourself," he shrugged. "Goodnight Sherly."

"Oh don't you-" Sherlock yelled, jumping off the bed, but the door was closed and he could hear Victor cackling behind it. And for once, it was a laugh that made him feel weightless.

 

Sherlock wasn't sure how they were meant to proceed, after spending half the night talking to each other. He came down the stairs of his dorm cautiously and ducked into the dining hall just to get some tea when suddenly a voice called out,

"Sherlock!" and there was Victor at a table surrounded by bright smiling boys, beckoning him over.

The blonde clearly had no idea what he was doing. This was the dining hall- everyone could see! Sherlock came over, only to shut him up, but Victor was patting the seat beside him and was he meant to sit down?

"Come sit," Victor bade and Sherlock sat. "These are my friends. That's Alex and Teddy and Sam. We went to primary together. Guys, this is Sherlock. He's in my house."

"Pleasure," a boy with red curls and a constellation of freckles- Teddy- said, sticking out his hand and Sherlock shook, caught off guard.

"Vic was just telling us about your nerd off last night," the brunette who was halfway to blossoming into gorgeous- Alex?- said and Sherlock winced. He waited for the denials, the brush off, the eventual blame. But Victor slung an arm around Sherlock' shoulders and laughed.

"I finally found someone who can keep up with me," he teased Alex and this wasn't going how Sherlock had expected at all. "Pillock."

"Whatever," the shortest of the boys- Sam- grinned. "It's just two tutors for the price of one when exams come 'round." And then they were all laughing, a genuine smile threatening to break through Sherlock's face.

"What'd you think?" Victor asked him as they walked to class, their schedules rather similar. His arm was still around Sherlock's shoulders and people were staring. Sherlock wanted to warn him that pretty soon everyone would know they were friends but Victor did not seem to _mind_ being associated with him.

"They seem nice," Sherlock offered and, because he couldn't hold back, tacked on, "bit of an odd group though."

Victor flushed. "Should have known you'd pick up on that," he shifted awkwardly. "We- that is to say- we all…they're like me."

"Gay?" Sherlock checked and if Victor was flushing before, now he was beat red. "No, it's fine," Sherlock promised, making eye contact. "I realized last night. It's fine."

"It'd better be," Victor grumbled but he looked up through his fringe and smiled a grin that made Sherlock's heart beat against his ribs.

 

Victor seemed to want to hang out _all the time_ which was fine with Sherlock except that it had no historical precedence. He didn't mind when Victor would walk with him between classes, gossiping about the idiots in their classes. And it made him warm in a way he couldn't explain when he came down to the dining hall and found a lanky-teenage boy space next to the blonde on the bench, right between him and Teddy.

But he had no idea how long he could expect this to last before Victor realized their similarities began and ended with Hawking, and moved on.

Victor seemed to understand much of him though, fully content to lounge around each other in perfect silence. One night, as Victor lay out on Sherlock's bed and Sherlock himself lay on the floor- neither of them having said a word in hours- Sherlock reached beneath his bed and pulled out his violin. Victor looked up with interest at the sound and smiled widely.

"You play?" he asked and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"No, I invested hundreds of pounds in a bludgeoning tool."

"To be fair, it's something you would do," Victor noted and Sherlock found himself surprised, again, at just how much of him Victor understood. "Will you play with me?"

"You play-" Sherlock froze and then re-read Victor's hands. "Piano. Obvious. How'd I miss it?"

Victor laughed. "Brilliant," he beamed and _that word_ did things to Sherlock. "Is that a yes?"

So Sherlock cased up his violin and followed Victor downstairs to the common room and then chased him through the dark to the music room before, breathless with laughter, they fell on their instruments and played together.

Sherlock had played with Mycroft when he was smaller, and with his tutor while he was still learning, but this was altogether different. And as their melodies swam together like breathing beasts, Sherlock finally understood that this would be a friendship hard to shake.

 

Victor came over to visit during Christmas break and then Sherlock had Mycroft drive him over to the Trevor summer house for the month of July. When it came time in August for Mummy to send in his school papers, Sherlock crashed down the stairs and asked,

"Can I request a roommate?"

Mummy blinked at her younger son, a bubble of something glittery floating in her chest. Never before had a Holmes requested a roommate. "Of course," she agreed and gently opened the sealed letters, handing them over so her son could scrawl _Trevor, Victor_ in a messy script.

 

* * *

 

"Hey, you busy?" Victor stopped him, running to catch up to Sherlock as he came out of the class building.

Sherlock shook his head, curls falling in his face. It was a warm day in October, a rare creature, and the year 10s were all on their way to study hall. But Victor stuck his hand in his and suddenly a skew for ditching didn't seem so bad. Victor led him past the buildings, to the edge of the grounds and there, hidden behind a house of some sort, was a magnificent oak tree.

Words didn't have to be exchanged, the challenge to climb was understood. Within minutes, both boys had dropped their bags by the trunk and had scampered up into thick, wide branches. Victor crawled across his branch to swing onto Sherlock's, grinning wildly.

"Isn't it brilliant?" he asked and Sherlock didn't even bother telling him off for such an obvious statement.

"It is," he agreed, wrapping his legs tight around the branch and swinging back, letting himself hang head-down.

"Hey, idiot-" Victor called after his vanishing head but Sherlock just laughed and laughed, the wind doing vicious things to his curls.

"It's good for brain flow," Sherlock made up, swinging himself back and forth. The odd feeling was back, the swelling like a balloon behind his ribs and he wanted to stay here forever.

Later, after they'd talked and Sherlock had swung up so they could _really_ talk- about brothers and pressure and stupid Sebastian Wilkes. After they'd jumped down and Victor had taken his hand and it'd felt so natural, Sherlock had barely noticed. After, when they were close enough to see the dorms, Victor turned to him.

"I just figured, now that we're Remove, we need a place of our own," he explained. "Not just the dorms. I mean, I love the guys but you and I- we're our own group some days."

Sherlock nodded. "You have moments of true intelligence sometimes," he conceded and Victor shoved him, smiling the whole while.

"Prat," he laughed and Sherlock pushed him right back.

"Well at least I'm not a wanker," he teased and Victor flushed beat red.

"Am not!"

"I live with you."

"Well fuck you."

"Wouldn't want to make your hand jealous," Sherlock shot back and then he was running because Victor was chasing him, screaming bloody murder into the setting sun.

 

"Mummy says you're doing well."

"Brilliantly deduction," Sherlock sniped into the phone. It was awkward, these phone calls in the middle of the hallway, with his back against the wall and the cord twisted in his fingers. He'd rather be anywhere else.

"And here you were, so worried," Mycroft said and Sherlock could feel him sneering into the phone.

"What do you want, Mycroft?" Sherlock demanded, cutting the filler.

"The Trevor family is very well off," his brother informed him casually.

"Just like every other family here, thank you for your invaluable information."

 "What I'm saying, as you well know, is he could be a very useful connection in your future."

Sherlock paused. "Victor is not a _connection_ ," he ground out, as viciously as he could manage.

"So what is he? A friend?"

"Yes," Sherlock announced proudly and he was, really. Sherlock Holmes, pioneer of actual friendship.

He could feel the tut in his bones, more than hearing it. "Caring is not an advantage, little brother-"

"Oh shut up," Sherlock replied eloquently. He wasn't sure where in two years his brother had gone from being his idol to the bane of his existence, but here they were and there was no going back. "Take your jealousy somewhere else."

Mycroft's laugh stayed with him long after he'd rung off. "Jealous? Oh Sherlock, if only you knew what you were setting yourself up for."

 

Frozen noses and cracking skin gave way to gentle sunlight and the beginnings of warmth. Spring found the boys back in their tree, arguing with an intensity that often scared their house mates.

"There's just no way any intelligent human being could believe that possible," Sherlock spit out, eyes manic.

"And yet Alvarez says it is," Victor answered, calm as always.

"An asteroid," Sherlock laughed. "You're telling me an asteroid killed the dinosaurs."

"Not directly," Victor tried explaining. "It hit the earth and-"

"Nonsense," Sherlock insisted, his hands fluttering. They had not lay still since they'd made the climb up the tree earlier that day.

"So how do you explain-" Victor started and then paused, looking up at the sky. "Shit, we're gonna miss dinner."

Sherlock checked his watch and swore. "No we're not," he insisted, jumping down and rolling in a way that always froze Victor's heart. "Let's go." Truthfully, he could have gone another few hours without food but Victor always got techy when he missed a meal. He couldn't remember when he'd decided Victor was worth making changes in his life for but here he was, making them, and it wasn't odd at all.

Victor climbed down and met him at the bottom with a smile. "I'm telling you," he promised, self-assured. "My brother says they're releasing their research in June. You read it and see I'm right."

"I'll read it and realize you're delusional," Sherlock laughed, his eyes bright and suddenly Victor caught his wrist. Sherlock turned and then they were paused, wind in their eyes and the sun making a valiant effort through the clouds.

"Can I-" Victor swallowed. "Can I try something?"

Sherlock nodded before he was even sure what he was agreeing to. Victor looked very nervous and very alive, pale skin flushed, blond hair an absurd nest. Slowly, like reaching out to a wild animal, Victor lifted his cold hands to cup Sherlock's face, one on each side. He leaned in and he was so close Sherlock could count his freckles, so close he could see the lines in his iris and then his lips were against Sherlock's and he couldn't see anything at all- only feel.

It felt odd and warm and very, very important. Victor hovered there, their lips just pressed together, before he drew back and dropped his hands.

"So?" he asked, sticking his hands in his trouser pockets like this was nothing important, but even Sherlock could tell it was _very_ important and whatever he answered could and would change them forever.

He didn't say that things like that were only for boys and girls, even though he wanted to. He didn't say he hadn't seen that coming, even though he hadn't and that scared him. He swallowed and tried his own best casual face, even though his own hands shook where they'd fallen by his sides.

"Requires further experimentation before I can decide what I think," he offered and Victor's relieved giggle was the best sound in the world.

"I think that can be arranged," he laughed and the swelling feeling was back but this time Sherlock knew what it was.

 _Happy_ he thought, a giggle of its own rising up in his throat. _I'm happy_.

 

Kissing Victor was very lovely, once they got the hang of it. The first few times were too fast and too wet, hidden behind the locked door of their dorm room. Finally, after a few days of negotiating over tongue placement and hand arrangements, Sherlock found himself on his bed, back against the headboard, with a warm Victor in between his legs and movement against his lips.

"Try opening your mouth," Victor murmured against his lips and Sherlock obeyed warily. But Victor just let his tongue run across the surface of Sherlock's and that was _nice_ , that was lovely and four minutes of that and one minute of a well-placed knee between his thighs had Sherlock shaking apart, Victor not a second after.

"Is that- is it normal?" he asked after they'd gotten their breath back and had curled around each other, fingers playing a bizarre interlocking game.

"I think so," Victor offered. "My brother used the word hair-trigger-"

"That's it," Sherlock agreed and Victor giggled against his chest. "That's what we have, hair triggers."

"It's not so bad," Victor promised, crawling up to find Sherlock's mouth and nip his way inside. "Give me like another 20 minutes and we can do it again."

Again sounded like a one-way ticket to a heart attack. But his trousers were already ruined- they could hardly get any worse.

"Do that thing with your tongue," Sherlock demanded and Victor, bless him, listened.

The end of year ten was not one for studying.

 

It was, however, one for mystery solving. Teddy had let it spread how Sherlock had found his lost notebook without even leaving the common room and just like that, people were flocking to him. It was lost objects, mostly, but there were a few friend dramas and even the occasional dead pet.

"You should start charging for this," Alex advised after a Shell had come in asking after his girlfriend and left with the firm knowledge she was not waiting for him back home based on the contents of her last letter. "You'd make a fortune."

"And then you can share some of it with your manager," Teddy winked as Victor came running down the stairs.

"Hey, what'd I miss?" he asked, looking for a place to sit and, wordlessly, Teddy moved to the open armchair so there was an extra space on the couch next to Sherlock. It all went unsaid, this messy business of dating. There was no hand holding on the hill, no kissing between classes. Both boys were hoping to avoid expulsion and here at Harrow, walls talked. Victor didn't need it getting back to his parents.

But that didn't mean no one knew and Victor took the seat gratefully, arm coming up to rest on the back of the couch- four painful centimeters away from Sherlock's back.

"Sherlock's been making Shells cry," Sam filled in and Victor leaned in to punch Sherlock's shoulder as the genius let out an outraged cry.

"Have I taught you nothing?" Victor chided. "Lie, my little grasshopper. Let the young ones have some years of happiness."

"He says that like that wasn't us last year," Alex said incredulously, shaking his head.

Sherlock said nothing. This should bother him, he knew it. Inane conversation, corny jokes, nauseating displays of comradery. He should be puking right now. But somehow, with Victor's hand two deep breaths from the back of his neck and murmurs of 'fantastic' and 'brilliant' as he analyzed peoples' lives, this was manageable. He could live like this.

 

Until he couldn't. Those days he'd shrug off the good-natured shoulder grabs, or frighten them off with a well-timed snarl, and retreat to the chemistry labs for hours, playing with chemicals and bodies and other silent objects.

He knew it offended the others but Victor always managed to smooth down the ruffled feathers. The blonde never took it personally though, which was why it surprised him to find Victor on his bed when he came back one night, past two am and exhausted.

"Why are you still up?" Sherlock asked softly, hovering by the edge of the bed and Victor looked up at him with blue eyes. He'd been crying at some point and had done his best to hide it but the red rims were still there.

"I can’t believe you," he whispered, not sounding surprised at all. "You honestly forgot."

"Forgot?" Sherlock tried but Victor just reached across the bed and handed him his calendar, the date circled with a red pen and the words _dinner at 7_ scrawled in.

"I don't mind when you go off into your mind palace," Victor kept going as Sherlock stared at the ink, days old and clearly something he'd seen. "But you promised to have dinner with me once this week. I sat alone, Sherlock. I got food for you. I looked like the dumbest person to ever live."

 _Wrong_ his brain was yelling at him, throwing dishes at the inside walls of his skull. _We messed up. Apologize! Apologize, you idiot, before we lose this_.

"You know what I'm like," Sherlock said instead, his mind raging at him, as he stood up straighter and tried to inject confidence into his pile of limbs. "You know I disappear, I don't make time. I'm not going to change just because you kissed me."

Victor looked up from where he was playing with the bedsheet and Sherlock felt lost. _I'm sorry_ he thought. _I'm sorry and you don't deserve this. Me._

"I don't want to change you, you idiot," Victor said, getting up. For a moment Sherlock thought he might punch him, then hug him, but all Victor did was shake his head, hiding his eyes behind his blasted fringe.

"I just want to be something worth changing for."

 _You're the idiot_ Sherlock bellowed inside his mind. _Can't you see how much I've already changed for you? I can and it terrifies me._

But Victor was already reaching out to shut the light, crawling into his own bed. "Goodnight Sherlock. We'll talk in the morning."

 _But I don't know what to say_ Sherlock thought but it never made its way, not even as a whisper, past the block in his throat that wanted things to just go back to the way they were.

 

* * *

 

"Can you just-"

"Do you see it?"

"Move your leg a bit," Sherlock ordered, pushing back curls from his sweat-soaked forehead.

Victor sighed and spread his legs out further on the bed. There was so much of him, so many centimeters of naked, soft skin, but now was not the time to get distracted. Now they were on a mission.

"Do you have-"

"Here," Victor fumbled, tossing down the jar of Vaseline.

"Thanks," Sherlock whispered back. It was so dark in the dorm room, just moonlight to guide them, but lights out had been hours ago and there was no way they were risking a walk-in. not now. "Okay, what do I do now?"

"Hold on a sec," Victor shifted, fishing the pamphlet out from between the pillows. "Okay, it says you're supposed to finger me."

Sherlock looked at his workspace skeptically. "There is no way my fingers are fitting in there," he decided.

"Not all at once, you idiot," Victor admonished and Sherlock shushed him quickly, his fingers slimy against his lips. "One at a time," Victor continued in a whisper.

Sherlock glanced up at him again before running his fingers up against the hole and gently pressing one in.

"Christ," Victor swore, arching and Sherlock looked up in alarm.

"Not good?"

"No shit, you're inside me. It hurts like fucking hell," Victor cursed, fidgeting. Sherlock moved to withdraw and Victor reached down to grab his wrist, stilling him.

"Don’t you dare," he warned. "We're doing this. Now try working me open- slowly."

As gently as he could manage, Sherlock worked his finger in and out. It was all soft in there and it was both bizarre and the most erotic thing he'd ever done. After a good few minutes of it, he tried another finger and accidentally hit something soft against the inner wall.

"Oh fuck," Victor moaned and that was very new.

"Was that-"

"Yes, yes, fuck yes. Keep touching it," Victor demanded and eight presses later he was coming, coming all over his own stomach.

Panting, Victor struggled up, grinning down flush-faced at a shell-shocked Sherlock with his fingers still inside him. "That was so good," he breathed out. "Weird but so good."

"Does it really feel that…" Sherlock trailed off, unsure of the word.

"Brilliant?" Victor supplied with a laugh. "Yeah, it does." He looked down to where Sherlock sat, untouched and very aroused by the all nonsense going on in his bed. "Do you want me to suck you?"

"Not a chance," Sherlock brushed off, withdrawing and tossing up the Vaseline, before settling against the base of the bed, stealing the pillow under Victor's hips to prop himself up. "You're doing it to me now."

Victor laughed. "Alright," he agreed, smirking. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

 

"Sherlock!"

Said genius looked up from where he was working on his revisions. Alex had stolen the tree trunk, leaning back as he studied Maths. Sam and Sherlock were lying in the grass, Sherlock trying to explain yet again why organic chemistry was _not that bloody difficult_ and Teddy was off crying somewhere. Status quo for A levels really.

"There you are," Victor panted, smiling down at him and Sherlock felt warm, despite the cooler wind.

"Oh hello Victor, it's so good to see you too," Alex bit off sarcastically, not looking up. "We missed you as well; so kind of you to think of us."

But Sherlock wasn't paying attention to him. "You got it?" he demanded and Victor nodded, face bright and beaming.

"Right here!" he presented, waving the letter in his hand. "Summer internship in Hong Kong. Do you know how amazing this is?"

"You may have alluded to it," Sherlock teased, trying to stay light. He was happy for Victor, he really was, but Hong Kong was too far and they were growing up in minutes.

"This is like a business major's dream" Victor sighed, falling dramatically to the ground and swooning out on the grass. Sam kicked at his head and Victor swatted his ankle. "I'm so lucky."

"We all are," Alex spoke up from the tree. "You're off learning business, Sam's getting into medical school-"

"I mean-"

"He is," Alex repeated and Sam nodded, reassuring himself. "I'm going to get my three A* and go to Cambridge law. Teddy's got that whole music gig set up. And Sherlock- hold on. Sherlock, what the bloody fuck are you doing next year?"

And that was the question wasn't it, the one Mummy and Dad and bloody Mycroft and his guidance counselors all wanted an answer to. But all he had was, "We'll see where the wind takes me."

"See," Alex chirped, "all figured out."

Sherlock could feel the teeming ball of worry he usually kept locked up roll out of his mind palace and settle somewhere in his gut. But before it could make him properly sick, Victor scooted over so he was lying close enough to Sherlock, their eyes meeting.

"Hey there stranger," he whispered and Sherlock smiled back. "There's room for two in the apartment they're giving me. Just so you know."

Sherlock froze. But Victor, bless him, just patted Sherlock's hand and smiled beatifically up at him. "Don't answer right away. I wouldn't dare take you away from your precious London unless you were sold. Just know it's an option."

It was good, Sherlock figured, to have some sort of option.

 

Victor invited him out to dinner with his parents, as caps went flying and boys cheered loudly in each other's ears. Sherlock said yes.

The Trevors were good people. A little predictable but Sherlock tried not to begrudge them it. Mrs. Trevor cooed over his curls and their graduated status and Victor kept everything from getting too awkward.

But somewhere around desert, as Mrs. Trevor swirled a spoon in her coffee, she mentioned in a rehearsed offhand voice, ''Dear, do you remember Charlotte Hart?"

"Think so," Victor answered honestly. His hand lay on the bench next to Sherlock's, their pinkies just shy of brushing, and Sherlock was so consumed in those centimeters of imagined space that he didn't see the danger before it was too late.

"Good girl, such a nice family."

"Yeah, very nice."

"Her mother Marion tells me she's single," Mrs. Trevor offered conversationally and suddenly everything was a live wire.

"Is she?" Victor asked, his pinkie wrapping around Sherlock's with a force that startled the genius.

"How nice," Mrs. Trevor entertained, "would it be if you two were to date?"

Sherlock felt his veins light on fire, his nails grow out and sharpen, his fangs descend. "I don't even know her, Mother," Victor answered carefully.

"You two always played so nicely together as children," Mrs. Trevor offered. "You'd make such an attractive couple. What do you think, darling?"

"I don't know," Victor answered.

"Oh, you're being silly," Mrs. Trevor laughed. "Sherlock, help me. Tell Victor he should ask her out."

That was about all Sherlock could take. "Excuse me, Ma'am, I don’t feel so well," he excused, standing up and fleeing restaurant. Outside, in the brisk night air, he could breathe again.

He found himself in the alley behind the restaurant, gasping out breaths in the dark, and Sherlock felt before he heard Victor's warm, rough palm on his back.

"Hey there, Sherly," he teased but Sherlock flinched away from him.

"How much longer?" Sherlock demanded, spinning to face him. "How much more of that am I going to have to take before you tell them?"

"I can't, Sherlock. Not now," Victor pleaded, keeping his voice low even here-alone as they were. "You're not so consumed that you don't know what'd going on around us."

"It's not just the gays who have Aids," Sherlock spit out, turning wild and he saw the flinch in Victor's face at the words. "And we've only ever been with each other. We're not _sick_ -"

"The country is going mad," Victor whispered. "Last report says 2,000 men in the US are infected, all gay."

"They exaggerate," Sherlock bit off.

"Doesn't change the fact that every newspaper is having eight-page spreads about 'The Gay Epidemic' and you want me to come out to my parents _now?_ "

"I will not be a dirty secret," Sherlock hissed and there was a pounding in his temple, a stinging behind his eyes. He was not about to cry, he was _not_.

"No love, god no," Victor pleaded, reaching out and this time Sherlock let him touch him, hold him, let Victor fold him into the cradle of his arms. "You are everything to me. You understand that?"

Sherlock buried his face in Victor's neck, biting back a sob. "I'm so sick of this," he confessed. "This awful hiding."

"Come with me," Victor tried. "You're just as lost as I am. Come with me to Hong Kong."

And he was right, Sherlock was so lost, so he nodded and nodded until his neck hurt and Victor was just holding him, rocking him in the moonlight. 

 

* * *

 

Hong Kong was brilliant and twenty decibels too loud it made Sherlock want to scratch his veins out of his skin, made him want to kiss every brightly lit billboard. The trading company had given Victor an apartment in the rich part of town with soft leather couches and a giant glass wall that opened up onto the insomniac city beneath them. He and Sherlock walked through the streets with their hands held between them and made bright, effervescent love against buttery leather.

And it was enough- for a while.

But there was nothing _for_ Sherlock in Hong Kong besides Victor who was at his internship ten to twelve hours a day, coming home worn out and flayed thin. So Sherlock found his own form of entertainment.

He spent hours on his violin in front of the glass panels. There was a piano in the apartment and some nights Victor joined him, their musical blending often leading into more sensual activities. He holed himself up with Chinese translation books for four days until he felt confident and then set out to explore the city.

Hong Kong was enough like London to make him feel safe, and different enough to prove interesting. He listened to chatter in the markets and followed newfound 'friends' into dens of illegal trading, black market sales and drugs. He had heroin thrown at him in dens; cocaine in even seedier places. He samples everything, tasted a thousand different flavors of oyster and squid and opium, let them explode on his tongue like blooming flowers.

He solved mysteries too, little things, like which seller was cheating with weights and where toddlers wandered off to when their mothers lost track of them in the crowded city parks. They were nothing like the mysteries he used to solve back home but they won him fresh fruit here and free heroin there and they kept his brain from spinning itself off track so he solved them all.

"Where do you get to, love?" Victor asked him one night, after Sherlock had come home even later than his partner and even paler. The August heat was wilting them, dark as it was outside, and they were in the cool glass living room, sprawled out on the floor with Victor leaning back against the table and Sherlock's head pillowed in his lap, Victor's fingers threaded in his damp black curls.

"Everywhere," Sherlock confessed. "It gets so boring when you're gone."

It should have disgusted him, that phrase, the mere implication he was dependent on another human being for anything. But what was the point anymore, of pretending? Victor was his everything, had been for years now. Nothing was going to change.

"Maybe you'll take me with you?" Victor asked and for a moment Sherlock was seized with a protective sort of jealousy for the people that had so kindly taken him in. But Victor was his partner. They were meant to share.

"I'm going out, tomorrow night," he suggested, his tone lazy and sluggish in the dark, thick air. "Come with me."

Which was how Sherlock found himself leading Victor by the hand into his favourite of dens. The lighting was bad but there were cushions everywhere and the music they played made him want to dance. Most visitors were dancing though, and needles nestled next to each other in little bowls.

"Have you ever done heroin before?" Sherlock asked, knowing the answer.

"A little," Victor admitted, holding back and Sherlock waved over to Kim. She came with a smile and the two dark-haired beauties chatted for a moment before she ushered them to a corner, handing them supplies.

"Love-" Victor warned, a bit uncomfortable, and Sherlock resented him for a moment. This was _his_ world, he was letting Victor in it, and then he had to try and ruin it with hesitation.

"Shoot up," Sherlock ordered. "I want to dance."

Victor obeyed, a bit awkwardly, and he had barely unwrapped his tourniquet before Sherlock was straddling him, letting his hands wind their way into blond curls.

"Sherlock!" Victor shouted over the music, pushing the genius back and looking around but Sherlock climbed back on and shushed him with a kiss.

"It's fine," he promised, kissing Victor into submission. "It's all fine here."

He lost track of the night after that. Sherlock knew there was a lot more kissing and then some brilliant memories of him and Victor dancing together, twining like elegant snakes and getting as close to clothed sex as they could manage. And then there was the alley behind the den with his back against a wall, his legs wrapped around Victor's waist for survival, not enough Vaseline and colors, colors everywhere. Everything was bright and vivid and Sherlock could taste love on his tongue- knew it tasted like orange peels and Victor's shampoo and marzipan.

But other nights it was just Sherlock alone in an empty apartment, glaring at white walls and wishing he was home. There was heroin in clubs and dens, there was heroin in the apartment but there was always heroin and that helped. Sometimes Victor was with him and that made it nicer, even though Victor was not as good at it, fumbling with tourniquets and needles, asking for help. But sex those nights was always in technicolor and Sherlock felt free.

The internship was set to end in August and there were talks on extending but on their last official week in Hong Kong, Victor got a call that shut his face down, left him shuttered and shivering.

"Teddy's dead," he whispered and that was the end of the era.

 

Sherlock had had no idea what to say at the funeral, so he hadn't said much of anything. Teddy's friends, _their friends_ as Victor insisted, had all been there, Alex included and Sherlock had done his best not to glare at him as he stood too close to the blonde mourner. Alex was grieving and he and Victor were a comfort to each other. That was healthy. He was supposed to be happy his partner was getting comfort Sherlock could not provide elsewhere.

They'd all stood by the gravestone, all of them thinking it could've been them and none of them saying it, and then he and Victor had gone home, back to Sherlock's London's flat, to make slow, bittersweet love against somber bedsheets.

"Hey, oh please don't," Sherlock whispered into Victor's neck as the blonde sobbed against him, clutching tightly- not letting him slide out. "Oh Vic-"

"I love you," Victor choked out and he called Sherlock love all the time, it was nothing new, but the formation of those three words did something brilliant in Sherlock's mind. "God, I love you. I never tell you but I love you, Sherlock."

He was meant to say it back. He was supposed to say it back. But the words were frozen in his throat and something in his face must have shown primordial fear because Victor leaned back far enough to kiss his nose and then his cheek.

"You don't have to say it back," he reassured but Sherlock knew he'd failed. "I just needed you to know."

But Victor was grieving and Sherlock had no concept of how to handle that. The blonde spent hours by the piano, not playing but fiddling with the keys as though looking for some secret in them. Sherlock tried, he really did, but aside from laying a comforting hand on Victor's shoulder and ensuring he ate, he was at a loss.

"I'm going to Alex's tonight," Victor told him one night as they ate a silent dinner, a staple these days, and Sherlock nearly choked. "He's having a hard time. He and Teddy were, well you know. Would you wanna come?"

"Not really," Sherlock said honestly as he tried to calm himself down internally. Victor wasn't cheating on him. People did not invite their partners to come with them if they were planning on cheating on them. He was being ridiculous. But even Sherlock knew that the only thing more ridiculous than worrying internally that his grieving partner and grieving friend were planning to sleep with each other was forbidding said grieving partner from finding comfort in someone capable of giving it.

So this time it was Victor coming home later and later at night while Sherlock worked on various things. Some nights it was test tubes and experiments for the doctorate he was considering getting. Other nights it was small cases, things friends or acquaintances would bring him by word of mouth.

One day, while Victor was out at work, an Italian man came to him with a ridiculous case that sent him off spinning for three days until he came home, a pillar of fire and unburnt energy.

"Victor, you would not believe this," he called into the flat as he came in. "I just got a man convicted for burglary and thanking me for it. You have to hear-"

But it was 2 am and the flat was empty. Sherlock searched it quickly, it was only four rooms, but there was no one. He was alone.

Victor came home just as the sun was starting to peek out from behind the building and Sherlock was waiting for him in the living room armchair.

"I should have known you'd still be up," Victor murmured, coming in and hovering in the doorway.

Sherlock tried to keep his eyes from scanning his lover but it was all there, mussed hair, tired eyes. "I figured whatever was keeping you away was important enough you'd want to share it as soon as you came home," he said carefully, shutters at the ready.

But what Victor said was, "We need to get tested," and Sherlock felt himself crumble.

"You mother-"

"Sherlock!"

"You sleep with Alex and not only that, you're dumb enough to not use protection-"

"I'm not sleeping with Alex!" Victor shouted, sounding shocked and it was so authentic that Sherlock closed him mouth. Victor advanced on him slowly, eyes still wide and disbelieving. "Did you really think that? Do you really think so little of me that I would fuck someone else and then come home and sleep with you?"

Sherlock opened his mouth, closed it, and then opened it again. Because he had, hadn't he, and when had they gotten to the point where he'd believe that possible? "Why do we need to get tested?" he croaked and Victor shook his head.

"Turn on the news," he said, his voice fragile and Sherlock did not let himself dwell on it as he switched on the TV. The news reporters were flapping about, frantic creatures with terrified eyes and he read rather than heard what they were saying.

"85% of drug users in Edinburgh infected," Victor repeated with them. "I was with Alex when we heard; I couldn't move for a while."

"They're exaggerating," Sherlock whispered.

"One would be enough," Victor said and they could not meet each other's eyes. "How often did we share needles, in Hong Kong?"

"I did once," Sherlock tried to recall. But maybe it was more. He didn’t remember, how was he supposed to remember?

"I shared all the time," Victor confessed in a shaky voice. "Stupid, stupid, I'm so stupid-"

"No, Victor stop," Sherlock urged, coming over and wrapping the shivering boy in his arms, Victor's head fell to his neck, his fingers scrambling at his back, clinging on.

"If I got you sick-"

"No one is sick," Sherlock insisted, staying firm. "We'll go get tested tomorrow."

 

The testing center was full of people, some holding the hands of their friends, relatives, partners, and other all alone. Sherlock was blindingly grateful for Victor's presence besides him. They weren't holding hands and for some reason that made his body ache.

"It'll be over soon," Victor promised and Sherlock dutifully ignored his trembling. "How bad could it be?"

It was awful. The nurses refused to touch him, treating him with gloves and face masks, as though it was airborne. And how could he blame them? Only yesterday the biggest headline had been 'Acquired Immoral Deficiency Syndrome.' He was dirt, he was disease, he was the source of all of this insanity.

It was only a finger prick, it shouldn't have made him feel so slimy but, never the neurotic type, Sherlock walked out to the examination room and washed his hands six times.

Victor met him in the waiting room a few minutes later and ran to him, stopping just before holding his hands. "Okay?" he asked.

"Yes," Sherlock lied and they waited until a doctor came out and called "Holmes?"

Sherlock followed him only as far as the hallway to hear him say, "The rapid is negative. You're free to go." And then he was running back, back towards the waiting room where a nurse was giving Victor the same news. He could see it, in her eyes and face and posture and Sherlock felt so weak in his knees he nearly collapsed.

"Oh thank god," he breathed out as soon as he reached him and fell into his arms, not caring who saw. Victor, for once, hugged him right back.

"I was so scared," Victor whispered in his ear, kissing the soft skin there. "If I had gotten you sick- there was no way I could've-"

"Let's go home," Sherlock begged and they did.

 

But the calm did not last long. It was crumbling slowly, in the way Victor came home later and later and Sherlock wailed on his violin at past 3 and the cold space in a bed that should never have been made that big until it fell apart with a letter.

"What do you mean, permanently?" Sherlock asked from the couch, watching Victor with cold eyes.

The blonde stood before him, a letter clenched in his hand, and Sherlock remembered a time just like this that felt like eons ago, when everything had been so much brighter and safer.

"I mean the company in Hong Kong wants to hire me full time," he offered cautiously. "The salary alone-"

"And what about me?" Sherlock cut him off, startling them both.

Victor faltered. "You loved Hong Kong-" he tried and Sherlock shook his head so violently, he thought it might detach.

"I was miserable and bored and-" _you were all I had_ he thought but did not say. "And I don't want to go back."

Victor took a deep breath. "This is huge for me, love. And what do you have here?"

Sherlock blinked, unsure he'd heard right. "I solve cases-"

"You play detective," Victor said, unintentionally cruel. "You can do that anywhere. Play detective in Hong Kong-"

"And I'll have time to cook a nice dinner for you for when you get home all tired from work," Sherlock snapped, unsure where this was going but not liking it. "I will not be housewife for you."

"I'm not asking you to!" Victor shouted and then retreated to the kitchen. Sherlock knew he was going to go get a drink to calm himself, even though his drinking set Sherlock on edge. "Fuck, this is stupid. Can we not fight?"

Sherlock scrambled to kneel on the couch, looking at Victor's retreating back. "No! You can't just ask me uproot my whole life and then act like it's not a fight-"

"What about me?" Victor asked, coming back out without a drink. Too angry to pour one- bad sign. "I'm not worth moving for-"

"You have always demanded I rearrange my whole life for you!"

"That's what couples _do_ , Sherlock!"

"Not like this!" Sherlock cried and this was turning into more than he'd wanted. "Couples don't ask each other to give up what they love-"

"No one's asking you to give up anything!" Victor bellowed and then stopped himself, raising a palm to cover his face. "We're not doing this now."

"When else?" Sherlock demanded. "I'm leaving to Brighton for the weekend to finish this case-"

"Oh no bloody way you are," Victor laughed cruelly, shaking his head. "We're having dinner with my parents this Saturday. You promised and You. Are. Going." He turned, trying to head back to his safe kitchen.

"I'm not going to dinner with your parents," Sherlock yelled over the arm of the couch. "I will not sit there and listen to them make wedding plans for you and god knows what whore-"

"I don't have a choice, Sherlock!"

"You always have a choice!" Sherlock cried, face red and hands clutching at the fabric. "The fact is, you're not choosing me because you are and always will be a coward."

"Oh fuck you-"

"You've never done anything mummy and daddy didn't approve of," Sherlock cackled, following Victor into the kitchen. "Did you used to ask their permission to shit, Vicky? To breathe?"

"You have no idea," Victor shot back and his voice broke; Sherlock was shattering him, "No idea what it's like to know your parents won't love you if you're-"

"Gay?" Sherlock taunted. "Just say it, Victor. You are gay-"

"Shut up!"

"You're gay!" Sherlock laughed manically and he was so vividly aware of what he was doing and he could not stop it for the world. "You're a shirt -lifter and a pillow biter and a coward and a-"

"Shut the FUCK UP!" Victor bellowed and then there was glass shattering behind Sherlock. There was silence in the moment that followed and Sherlock turned to see the shattered plate on the tile floor behind him, where Victor had thrown it.

"Oh shit," Victor whispered, staring at his raised, trembling hands.

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak but there was nothing in his throat. He had nothing to say. And then Victor was on him, his warm, broad hands searching his body, checking for injury.

"God Sherlock, did I hurt you? Are you okay?' he begged, hands restless on Sherlock's chest, and Sherlock caught them, calming him down.

"It's okay, I'm okay," he soothed, unsure how they'd gotten here. "It was nowhere near me; you weren't even aiming for me. I'm alright-"

"It's not alright, god," Victor gasped. "I tried to hurt you. What the fuck is wrong with me- I threw a dish at you-"

"It's okay-"

"Stop saying that Sherlock, do you know what I almost did?" Victor begged off. "I could've really hurt you. Oh god- what's wrong with me?"

 _You are hurting me,_ Sherlock thought, but he knew what to say. He was going to reassure Victor, rub his shoulders, promise him everything was fine. But when he opened his mouth, all that came out was,

"We're not okay, are we?"

There was a beat of silence and then Victor let out a laugh that sounded closer to a sob. He sunk down onto the kitchen stool, his head hanging between his shoulders. "No," he agreed, shaking his head. "We're not."

"But I love you," Sherlock offered, like a splintered bit of something once beautiful and Victor let out a choked gasp and suddenly Sherlock understood what it meant to just _be too late._

"I love you too," Victor said and then held out his hands, like a beggar unsure of what he needed, only that he needed. "But sometimes that's not enough."

And that was it, wasn't it?

"Does this mean-" Sherlock tried but Victor shushed him, rested a finger across his lips and shook his head.

"We'll talk about this in the morning," he promised. "Let's go to bed."

And so Sherlock let Victor lead him into bed, let him nestle his head on Victor's chest, let their legs intertwine and felt Victor drift off beneath him.

But Sherlock did not sleep. If this was to be the last time, he would memorize every moment of it.

 

The airport was cold and lonely, but not as cold and lonely as the flat was going to be once he got back. All of Victor's stuff, the important bits, were in one of the suitcases trailing behind him. The rest was being shipped later on. Neither had any delusions about coming backs or reconnections.

"So-" Victor started and then Sherlock felt his poor abused heart finally collapse as two solitary tears escaped his eyes.

"Oh no," Victor soothed, coming over and wrapping Sherlock into his arms, those large warm palms cradling the small of his back and the back of his head. "No love, don't cry."

"I'm not crying," Sherlock insisted even as he left the collar of Victor's shirt damper than it started.

Victor laughed, a vibration against his cheek. "Of course not," he agreed. They drew back just far enough to lock eyes and hold hands. It was a different world out there now. No one stared.

"You'll take care of yourself?" Victor checked. "Remember to eat, sleep occasionally-"

"Yes mum," Sherlock promised and Victor only shook his head.

"I worry about you."

 _I don't worry much about you_ Sherlock thought. _You've always had a bloody clue what was going on._

"I'll keep myself alive, just for you," Sherlock retorted. "I'm thinking I might give Uni a chance," he offered offhandedly and Victor beamed at him. It wasn't fair, that that smile still twisted his insides and blocked his throat after all they'd said to each other. This distance would be good. It would be good. It would-

"Will you write to me?" Victor asked and Sherlock thought it over.

"Not at first," he answered honestly. "Maybe when it gets easier."

Victor understood because Victor always understood, even when it was just them as children swinging on old branches and making up theories about everything. "Don't push yourself," he said. "I'll wait."

"You'll be too busy ruling the world," Sherlock tried a laugh. It came out wrong and twisted- a crippled thing. "Or at least its money."

"Gotta start somewhere," Victor joked and then it was just them and two suitcases and a lot of broken promises.

"I-" Sherlock tried ad the same time Victor said "You-" and they both froze before Victor nodded and Sherlock opened his mouth again.

"I'll miss you," he confessed and Victor didn't reply, just hugged him. Sherlock wasn't sure if they were meant to kiss- one last time before it all ended- but Victor did not initiate one and Sherlock found himself grateful for it.

"You will always be the best thing that happened to me," Victor vowed, his thumb sweeping the bone beneath Sherlock's eye. "I owe you so much."

Sherlock closed his eyes, opened them and then swallowed. "You're going to miss your flight," he got out, voice hoarse, and Victor picked up his suitcases, nodded, and headed towards the mass of gates.

There was a moment, right before Victor disappeared around the corner, when he turned and their eyes met and Sherlock nearly vaulted the separation table, pulled Victor into him and begged him to stay. But in the end he raised his hand and waved, awkwardly. After a moment Victor waved back and then he turned the corner and Sherlock was alone.

In a fit of pique, in the cab back, Sherlock closed his eyes and deleted everything Victor had taught him. Black holes went first and then asteroids and comets and then stars and suns. He realized, as he brushed piles of information about the solar system into the trash, that he might need them one day but he found he could not bring himself to care.

 

* * *

 

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked up from his (John's really, but who kept track?) laptop to find John standing before the couch, a letter in his hands.

"You've got a letter," he explained, staring at it with a puzzled expression. Sherlock did not blame him; who wrote letters these days? "It's all the way from Hong Kong."

That got Sherlock's heart beating faster than was medically safe and he reached out with trembling fingers to take the letter. John understood the look on his face, because that was one of his many talents, and sat down beside his partner, resting a hand on the small of his back.

Sherlock looked up and met blue eyes, trying a smile. This touching bit was all very new and fragile- not much past a first kiss in a kidnapper's basement and a follow-up few in the hallway at home- and they were both taking it by centimeters. The touch was nice though and Sherlock tried to let John know.

"Who's it from?" John asked and Sherlock opened the envelope to see the letterhead of Trevor Inc.

"Old friend," Sherlock explained, skimming the letter about missing ships, a woman named Gloria Scott and hundreds of thousands of pounds.

John hesitated. "Old friend in a Sebastian Wilkes kind of way or-"

"As far from that as you can get," Sherlock cut him off and then paused at the end. Victor had signed it, _all my love, Vic_ and then had added a p.s. _Please bring Dr. Watson with you. I have a bit of a speech to give him_. Unordered, his face broke into a genuine smile and he chuckled.

"Pack our bags John, if you'd be so kind," Sherlock instructed, bounding up and grinning at his partner. "The game is on."

 

**Author's Note:**

> *hugs and kisses* I did promise you <3


End file.
